


Want a Little Sugar in my Bowl

by amycarey



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Crack, F/F, Fluff, Threesome, bowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 05:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7745317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amycarey/pseuds/amycarey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a quiet night in Storybrooke and there’s only so much to do when the latest force of evil is mostly preoccupied with particularly mature delinquency, ruining the Jekyll to her Hyde’s lipstick by drawing cocks on the walls of the Mifflin Street guest room. </p><p>So, bowling it is then. Nice, family friendly fun. What could possibly go wrong?</p><p>Written for Swan Queen Week Day 6: Arguments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Want a Little Sugar in my Bowl

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to coalitiongirl for inspiring this particular incarnation of The Evil Queen, and also for cheerleading me and bolstering my self-esteem and laughing in all the right places. Thanks to Turtle who was inspired by a cry of ‘do it for Henry’ when we went bowling. Also, a huge thank you as well to wistfulwatcher for her dedication to SQW over the years. You’ve made fandom a brighter and sunnier place.  
> Title taken from Nina Simone’s ‘Sugar in my Bowl’.

It’s a five minute drive from Mifflin Street to Storybrooke’s bowling alley and Emma has already decided she has made a terrible tactical error. 

 

The Evil Queen called shot gun so Regina is sulking in the backseat, pressing her knees into the Evil Queen’s back. “I’ll destroy you,” The Evil Queen says, but it’s an empty threat because, since they managed to get the cuff on her, she’s harmless. All roar, no bite. A toothless kitten, or Simba in The Lion King. 

 

Emma’s fond.

 

“We’re here,” she says. The Queen tries to open her door but is hampered by the kiddie lock. Regina snickers and the Queen glares darkly at her. “Children, behave,” Emma says.

 

She only chose bowling because Henry was going on a double date with Violet, and Elena and Moana, two girls brought over with the new curse and who had apparently bonded (Henry's word, uttered in such a way that indicated he could barely resist finger quotes) over feeling out of place in white, small town America. The Queen needed a break from breaking kitchenware and drawing penises on the walls of Regina's guest bedroom in scarlet lipstick, and bowling is fun, right? She has pleasant memories of one of her foster families taking her bowling, the dad helping her with her technique, and feeling that warm glow of family and acceptance and possibility for the first time.

 

Maybe that's what Regina and the Queen need. Family togetherness.

 

The shoes are the first sign that bowling isn't going to end well. “Two sets of size seven,” Regina says to the girl at the counter. Cracking gum all the while, the girl hands a set of neon yellow shoes to the Queen who eyes them with a look of horror.

 

“Absolutely not,” she says.

 

“Can't play if you don't wear the shoes,” the girl (her name tag reads ‘Esme’ and she's wearing a button that reads ‘No Human is Illegal’) says, flicking thick hair back over one shoulder. The Queen glares. Esme shrugs.

 

“Just put the damn shoes on,” Regina snaps and the Queen does, glowering all the while. 

 

The Queen wields the scarlet bowling ball like it’s a fireball and she’s ready to throw it. It is difficult, however, to look particularly evil in neon shoes. Emma snaps a picture. “I fail to see any fun in this,” the Queen says.

 

“I’m sorry, would you have preferred we leave you at home, staring at the wall and listening to death metal?” Regina asks.

 

The Queen perks her head up at the phrase ‘death metal’ even though Emma’s certain she doesn’t know what it is. Well, at least eighty-five percent certain. “So,” she says, steering off the inevitable conversation that will turn into another ridiculous argument. “You hold the ball like so,” and she demonstrates, “and then you bowl it towards the pins. Your aim is to knock them all down.”

 

“Sounds simple enough,” the Queen says. 

 

Regina, meanwhile, is inputting names into the computer system. “Emma, you’re up first.”

 

Emma picks up her ball, blows on it for good luck (ignoring the double scoff from the two Reginas), takes a run up, and lets the ball loose.

 

“Not bad,” Regina says raising her eyebrows. 

 

“Curved a bit,” Emma say, twisting her lips. The ball collides with the others on the ramp and the three remaining pins are released by the pinsetter. She bowls again. “Damn it.”

 

“Eight is a perfectly respectable score,” Regina says, though she is smirking.

 

The Queen raises an eyebrow. “Your aim is atrocious.” Then, she looks up at the scoreboard. “Who the hell is Queenie?”

 

Emma snorts and tries to pass it off as a cough. 

 

Regina bowls a spare and can’t help but smirk. “Beat that,  _ Queenie _ ,” she says.

 

“I’ll beat  _ you _ in a moment,” the Queen says loudly enough that Henry looks over from the other lane. 

 

“Do I need to get the spray bottle?” he yells. Regina and the Queen both turn on him with the most terrifying ‘disappointed in you, my only son and light of my life’ face Emma has ever seen.

 

“Yikes,” Moana says.

 

“Time to bowl,” the Queen says, picking up the ball with the manner of someone going into battle. She glares at the lane, and throws. The ball bounces with a crash against the varnished wood and rolls. And rolls. And...

 

“Four miles an hour,” Emma says. “That’s… something.”

 

“And...there’s the gutter,” Regina says.

 

“This is a stupid game,” the Queen says and twirls her fingers as if to make a fireball. The movement shifts her sleeves and the cuff becomes visible. 

 

(Emma is doing her best not to feel guilty about that one; they can’t trust The Queen and Regina agreed it was the best solution but she’d been so quiet afterwards. 

 

“I felt so helpless,” she’d told Emma, curled up on the couch in her study. “Strapped to that table, nothing--” She had stopped, curled her arms protectively around herself. “It’s necessary, I know that.”)

 

“Give it another try,” Emma says, trying to be encouraging. The Queen glares at her, a heated gaze and lip curl; it’s almost nostalgic, so similar to the early days of her relationship with Regina. “I miss this,” she tells Regina, and gets a second look at that same expression.

 

“If you attempt to recreate the chemistry by cutting down my apple tree I will destroy you,” she says.

 

“If it’s the last thing you do?” Emma asks and at the surprise on Regina’s face, adds, “yeah, Mary Margaret likes recounting her wedding day.  _ And then Regina stormed in and she was wearing this bustier... _ ” The Queen grimaces.

 

The first round progresses. The Queen is spectacularly terrible at bowling and seems to have taken the approach that if she is going to be terrible, she’s going to  _ own _ terrible; she’s going to make terrible her bitch. “I didn’t know bowling balls could roll that slowly,” Emma says, watching the ball crawl towards the pins.

 

Regina rolls her eyes. “She’s decided she’s not good at this.”

 

“How does it work though?” Emma asks. “Is it like divorce? Did you get bowling skills in the split?”

 

“I think I got impulse control,” Regina says. “We both got the competitive spirit though,” she adds, and flashes Emma a blinding grin.

 

Emma chooses to blame this for why she bowls a gutter ball, which leads to Regina winning the first round. “Congratulations,” she says. “I’ll go get us drinks.”

 

She’s at the counter, ordering beers and nachos, when Henry appears beside her. “Hey, Ma,” he says.

 

“Good date?” she asks, nudging him with her elbow.

 

“Slightly hampered by my deeply embarrassing mothers,” he says. “The girls are enjoying themselves though. How’re they doing?”

 

Emma looks over, the Queen with her arms crossed and sulking, Regina doing a poor job of pretending not to be smug. “Um.”

 

“They need to get on,” Henry says, and there’s an urgency in his voice. “Please, Mom. It’s important.” 

 

“Oh, well, if it’s important,” Emma says. “Henry, I get it.” 

 

“They’ve got to find common ground,” Henry says. “Mom’s not happy.”

 

“Kid, I know,” Emma says. “I really do.” She’s been around Regina enough since the split, seen her muted and colourless, seen her hide and flinch around Snow and David, heard tears through the wall between them when she was sleeping over at Mifflin Street to help guard the Queen. Along with the impulse control, Regina got saddled with guilt and without her protection, sometimes she drowns in it. She grabs the bucket of beers and a large tray of nachos, awkwardly shoulder barging Henry in lieu of a hug, and returns for round two of The Most Awkward Bowling Night In Existence. 

 

When the next round begins, Emma sits awkwardly at the table, leg brushing against the leather of the Evil Queen’s trousers. It's difficult because, while she knows this isn't Regina exactly, she looks like her and has her mannerisms when she forgets to play the role, and she's not going to lie to herself--this look featured in a few too many fantasies post-time travel. 

 

As Regina stands up to bowl, the Queen leans forward in her chair. “Do it for Henry,” she shout-whispers. Emma glances over at Henry's lane and sees Violet giggling and Henry rolling his eyes. 

 

(“Three moms,” he'd said when Emma had asked him last week what was up with the perpetual teenage scowl. “I know the Queen is psychotic but she also keeps checking I've done my homework and leaving cutesy notes in my lunch bag.”)

 

Regina squares her shoulders, though doesn't acknowledge the Queen, and bowls a strike.

 

“Apparently highly motivating,” the Queen says. 

 

As the second game progresses, whenever Regina’s bowling and the Queen isn’t busy goading her, the Queen’s hands drift, tapping against Emma’s knee, fidgeting with the laces of her shoes, brushing a lock of hair away from Emma’s face and pinning it. “You need to be able to see if you can beat _ her _ ,” she says. 

 

Whenever Emma bowls, the Queen argues with Regina, just slightly too quietly for Emma to hear more than brief snippets. “ _ My  _ son… Last guacamole… Can’t bowl… Emma’s jeans…” Despite the distractions of the two Reginas, she bowls well, hitting her stride. She’s always been competitive and Regina winning the first game has awakened something in her. 

 

Despite her early strike, Regina doesn’t do nearly so well this time around. She curses when the ball rolls into the gutter twice in a row. “Mom!” Henry yells from two lanes over. “Language.” 

 

The Queen and Regina are starting to snipe again, so Emma sends Regina to get the next round. “So,” Emma says. “Enjoying yourself?” 

 

The Queen frowns. Her nose wrinkles in the same way Regina’s does when she’s frustrated, and it’s surprisingly...cute, beneath the caked-on eyeliner and glower. “I can’t believe this is what you people do for fun,” she says.

 

“It’s a new feature in Storybrooke,” Emma says. “It’s been great as Henry gets older. A nice, safe place for dates.” She looks over at Henry who is being unnecessarily solicitous in helping Violet bowl. 

 

The Queen--for whom Henry is normally a safe topic--goes very quiet at this and watches Henry for a time, frown lines forming between her eyes. “This is good,” Emma says in an effort to reassure. “Henry dating. His world’s normal enough for him to actually go on dates.”

 

“I--” She pauses. “I’m glad he has the choice.”

 

“Who has what choice?” Regina asks, handing Emma a beer. Their hands brush and Emma shivers. 

 

The Queen shoots her a calculating look. “Nothing,” she says. “I’m just glad Henry’s happy.” They look over at him and Regina sighs, smiling, eyes soft, and for a moment, Emma cannot tell the two of them apart. 

 

“Well,” Regina says, and takes a swig of beer. “Final round?” 

 

When it’s Emma’s turn, she realises that the Queen and Regina are whispering. “Are you forming an alliance?” she asks, joking, but the silence that comes kind of makes her nervous.

 

She feels like she’s bowled well, so it’s surprising to say the least when the ball veers off into the gutter twice in a row. “Damn it,” she mutters.

 

“Oh, bad luck,” Regina says, and runs her fingers down Emma’s arm when she returns to seat. The Queen, standing for her turn, glares at Regina. 

 

The bowling ball thumps and fumbles down the lane at a blistering four miles an hour. “I believe they call that a strike,” the Queen says; she looks a little too smug and if Emma didn't know she was barred from doing magic she would think the Queen was cheating.

 

Regina bowls well--a spare--and when it's Emma's turn again she knocks down two pins. While collecting the ball for her second bowl, the Queen stands, coming forward and pressing herself against Emma, under pretense of grabbing her beer (and Emma knows this is a bullshit move because the Queen loathes the cheap beer available at the bowling alley, preferring liberal servings of Regina's cider). She tries to tell herself that it’s just instinct that causes a shudder of heat roll through her, but the Queen smells rich and feels like Regina not that Emma knows what Regina feels like because they keep their distance--though Emma can infer a great deal from joint hugs and pulling one another out of danger and nights on the couch, watching films and  _ barely  _ touching and--God. She jumps away, bowling ball in her hand almost unbalancing her.

 

She bowls again and it’s a gutter ball. “I don’t understand,” she grumbles, watching The Queen get up to play. 

 

Regina leans against her, newly short hair rumpled. “I’m sure you’ll pull it back,” she says, and pats Emma’s knee in what Emma assumes is supposed to be a reassuring manner.

 

(She had cut it when the Queen came to town. “Vintage,” Emma had said. 

 

Regina had touched the choppy ends, and had smiled though her eyes had been shining. “Yes, well,” she’d said. “It was time for a change.” But Emma had been reminded of Regina endeavouring to make herself smaller and softer, losing the sharp, mayoral image for true love--or whatever she and Robin had been because Emma’s not sure exactly and she’d never had time to ask in the ensuing battle against the Queen and then Killian had left her and, well, Emma hadn’t been quite herself for a time.)

 

When she bowls again, it’s the same thing. She bowls, all seems to be going well, and then it veers away, taking out one pin. “I’m not doing anything different,” she grumbles. 

 

“Mom!” Henry yells, outraged, and Emma turns to see Regina’s guilt-stricken face and to hear the Queen cackle with laughter. Henry storms over. “You’re cheating!” he says. “That is so not Gryffindor of you.”

 

The Queen purses her lips. “I think you’ll find we are Slytherins, dear,” she says.

 

Henry and Emma snort in unison (because, in one of their many efforts to keep the Queen from going stir-crazy they’d watched the entire series of ‘Harry Potter’ movies and then the pair had privately sorted the entire town and the one thing they had agreed on without argument was that Regina was a Gryffindor) before Emma remembers she should be cross. “I can’t  _ believe _ you’re cheating.”

 

“It was all her,” Regina says weakly.

 

“ _ She _ doesn’t have magic,” Emma says. “Way to role model, Madam Mayor.” 

 

“It was just a bit of fun, Emma,” the Queen says and she’s so goddamn patronising. 

 

“Yeah,” Emma mutters. “Fun.” Then, she throws up her hands, grabbing her jacket as she does. “I’m out. You can find your own way home.” 

 

She storms up to the counter, returning her shoes to Esme, shoving her feet back in her boots and stomping out, rolling her eyes at her own petulance. She’s downed two tumblers of whiskey and thrown a few darts at the board with Killian’s face on it that Regina made her for her last birthday when there’s a knock at the door. 

 

She opens it, scowling when she sees the two Reginas. “Not in the mood for you two right now,” she says.

 

“Emma, I’m sorry,” Regina starts, but the Queen interrupts her.

 

“You walked out on our date,” she says, sliding past her and into the apartment in such a way that reminds Emma she might  _ look _ like a vampire, but she certainly doesn’t abide by their rules, more’s the pity. “That’s rude.”

 

“Our  _ what _ ?” Emma asks, dropping the dart in her hand. It lands point down and embeds itself in her wooden floors.

 

“I may not be experienced in the area,” the Queen says, “and neither is she, but that was definitely a date. You picked us up, brought us flowers, took us to a ‘nice, safe place for dates’, paid for food and drinks...”

 

“I--” It hadn’t been like that, had it? She’d just seen the tulips at the grocery store and the deep purple had reminded her of Regina and she’d--okay, so it had been exactly like that.

 

Regina looks like she wishes she could just disappear into the ground. “It’s all right, Emma,” she says. “I certainly don’t--”

 

“Liar,” the Queen says, amused. “I’m you, remember? I know how you feel, those weak, pathetic wonderings.  _ Oh, when will the Saviour stop dating that halfwit and fall desperately in love with me?” _

 

“I have  _ never _ thought that!” Regina says.

“I have,” Emma says because, well, two whiskeys and two Reginas has her flustered. “I mean, about Robin anyway. Sorry.”

 

“No,” Regina says and touches her palm to her cheek. “It’s very warm here, isn’t it?” 

 

“It’s actually a little cold,” the Queen says. “But perhaps that’s not the heat you’re thinking of.” 

 

And perhaps it’s the two whiskeys, perhaps it’s that Regina is so adorable when she’s embarrassed, perhaps it’s that the Queen has moved to stand behind Emma, a hand at the small of her back and her breath warm on Emma’s neck, perhaps it’s simply that Emma’s tired of pretending. Whatever it is, Emma surges forward and kisses her, soft, gentle, lips flirting with pressing deeper but just resisting.

 

“It’s tradition at the end of a date,” she murmurs when they part, Regina’s eyes half closed and lips curving into a glowing smile.

 

The Queen pinches Emma’s hip. “Ugh,” she says. “So much yearning and pining. I might vomit.” So Emma turns and evens things out. Their kiss is something quite different, fierce and possessive. The Queen bites her lip and presses against her until Emma is pressed up against Regina, Regina’s arms around her waist, and it’s so much. Too much. Everything.

 

“God,” Emma hisses when the Queen’s hand finds it way under her shirt, hand cold against her warm stomach. “What--”

 

“Are you going to go all prudish on us now?” Regina asks, pressing against Emma, lips ghosting at the skin at the nape of her neck.

 

Emma twists to kiss Regina. “Well, there are rules to this dating business,” she says. “If that was a date.”

 

The next words, from the Queen, are enunciated clearly. “Fuck. Rules.” She takes one of Emma’s hands and Regina clasps the other and, together, they lead her towards the bedroom.

 

In the morning, sunlight streams through the windows; she forgot to pull the curtains but then she’d been rather preoccupied, she thinks, looking down at Regina who is using her left boob as a pillow, dark hair barely poking out from beneath the sheets. The Queen is sprawled on her front, starfish-like, and is snoring loudly. The front door slams. “Ma! I’m home!” Henry yells and it’s too late by the time she realises that her bedroom door is wide open.

 

“Hey, kid,” she says, smiling weakly at a horror-struck Henry. The Queen continues to snore but Regina’s head jerks up and the look of horror on her face mirrors Henry’s own. 

 

“ _ God _ !” Henry wails. “Why? What have I ever done to deserve such terrors?”

 

“He got his propensity for melodrama from her,” Emma says, jerking her head at the Queen, and Regina opens her mouth as if to argue, before sighing and nodding.

 

Henry has a hand over his eyes. “I’m taking your wallet,” he says. “I’m going to buy myself a really big breakfast and when I come back all three of my mothers will be fully dressed and sitting in opposite corners of the lounge.”

 

Emma clasps the sheet tight around herself. “Henry--”

 

“When I said they needed to get on,” he says, “I did  _ not _ miss an ‘it’ in that sentence.” 

  
And Emma can’t help but collapse back against the pillows in helpless laughter.


End file.
